Fallen Angels
by Allonympt
Summary: Gen. Rated Adult. Even sociopaths are special to someone. Or something.


Fallen Angels

Disclaimer – The usual denial. Not mine in any way.

Summary – Gen. Rated Adult. Even sociopaths are special to someone. Or something.

Authors Note: This was written some time ago (during season three) but in retrospect, I find it strangely appropriate.

The slap comes out of nowhere and her mouth fills with the penny-sharp tang of blood - His blood. He cut himself on her teeth when he hit her. She licks it off, tongue probing at the soft folds of gum to get every last drop. Taste's like iron and strength and earthy living. She grins up at him hard.

He doesn't curse, doesn't step away. Just calmly wipes his hand off on the rag tucked into his belt, holding the cloth there until the shallow bleeding stems. She can smell it clotting and aging on his skin already. He won't hit her like that again.

"Liked that, did you." He says softly. It's not a question. The whole room is drumming with the beat of his heart; it echoes incessantly in her ears, thrums through her body like hers hasn't in a very long time. She wants that rhythm, loves the way it stirs the monster in her head and the heat in her belly. He is so calm. Usually they're like little animals, beating so fast she can see it through the thin membrane of their skin. She has to speed up to match, she can't resist the incentive of their fear, and it all goes down in violence so swift it happens in mere flashes. But this one…this one is so still inside she could probably take her time, would probably have the control to restrain herself by proxy. She's never had that before. She thinks it could be really good.

"You're not going to talk." Still he asks her no questions, but she isn't sorry. He's right. She doesn't talk.

"I followed you across North Dakota, Montana, into the Rockies. I was so sure I was fallowing a nest of Fangs. But I wasn't, was I. No, it was just you." He stares at her now, so intense, so cold. There's nothing in the depths of his eyes, they are like mirrors reflecting only her own image. She strains towards him.

"What are you." He cradles her head, fingers weaving gently into the tangled matte of her hair, and peels back her lip with his thumbs. So gentle. She sits still for him because she can, and because she loves the feel of his deliberation. These are hands that must choose to be gentle, that never do anything casually and could snap her neck on a whim. It wouldn't kill her, but she'd be so disappointed.

He steps back, considers her for a moment, then retrieves his bag from the chair by the door. He pulls out a wooden stake, long and wicked looking, and forces it lengthwise between her jaws. It pulls awkwardly at the corners of her mouth and forces her to stretch open more then she is comfortable. She curls her tongue around it, struggles to swallow and shift it further forward. There is no give. He holds it in place and uses his free hand to get a better feel of her teeth. His fingers slide over the shine of her fangs, the pink flesh of her gums, presses down and strokes her tongue. Finally he straightens, pulling out the stake and allowing her to crack her jaw. She watches to see what he will do next.

"You're not a vampire."

No. Vampires are cheap, shallow cutouts of the depths she is capable of. There is not a vampire on earth that is as old as she. She moves between earth and Hell as easily as a bird cutting through the air. Once upon a time she even treaded over the grasses of Eden. The only thing that gives her any pleasure is the shining, ephemeral spark of God embodied in human flesh. She has found it no where else, and every time she is _so_ close, she can almost touch it. They always die too quickly.

His hands skate over her shoulders, cup her breasts, then across her belly and between her legs. It arouses no warmth in her. This body is cold, a prison of meat and the illusion of mortality. She cannot die, and she cannot garner any pleasure from the flesh. She wasn't supposed to be this thing.

He lingers there for a while but her lack of response frustrates him. His is a mind interested not in the body but the effect. He wants to know that he can hurt her. Finally he steps back and again applies the rag to his fingers. All the while he scrutinizes her.

"You could walk into any city and the humans would overlook you. They'd think you were just another crazy bag lady. But you were never human." She can hear it now, the lilt at the end of his voice that wants to turn it into a question. He doesn't, quite, and she is pleased by his staid, self-contained confidence. If he had asked a question of her she might have grown bored and killed him out of turn. She wants to wait a moment longer, wants to see what the spark in this man looks like before she tries to carve it out of him.

He stares at her hard, then he picks the stake up again and shoves it into her chest. He grunts as he shoves it in, until his hands are pressed flat against her chest and his cheek is pressed against hers. She turns, licks a wet stripe up his face and tears his ear partly off his head.

He screams. He tumbles backwards, falling awkwardly over his feet and crashing to the floor. She is so pleased to have broken his composure. Finally his heart beat speeds up, and she feels the void in her quicken in response. She strains against her bonds but doesn't break them yet. Their pleasant restraint is a reminder that she does not want to rush it this time.

His eyes are wide and they are no longer mirrors. Now she can see anger in them, surprise, but no fear. And maybe, just maybe, a flash of the familiar darkness, clinging to him like oil. This is a man not unfamiliar with the abyss. He grins up at her hard

"Bitch." Soft, so soft, and then he's on his feet and drawing a wicked looking knife from his belt. He yanks her head back by a fist full of hair and saws at her throat. She can feel the flesh tear and pull as the knife goes back and forth, and the release of fluids that spill down her front. But the flesh closes up as fast as he opens it and after a minute he draws back, the knife dangling uselessly at his side. Blood drips to the floor and his skin gleams darkly red.

"What are you." He snarls and flecks of red fluid spray from his lips as he speaks. He puts the knife down and retrieves a small canister of lighter fluid from his bag. He squirts it liberally over her, shaking the last drops out over her head. A silver lighter is drawn out and he flicks it open, thumbing the trigger. A small blue flame is held in front of her face.

"I don't know anything that can withstand fire," he tells her, and holds it to her hair. She goes up in a whoosh of flame, the fire eating its way across her body incredibly fast. Her ragged clothes burn, the bonds he tied her with fall away. Her skin peels and cracks and sloughs off under the flame. She can feel her insides boil. But she can see him steadily through the fire, staring at her unblinking. Eventually the flame dies down, and she is left slumped forward, a blackened husk.

He steps towards her. She tilts her head up. With the movement the ashes cake off her and fall curling to the floor. New skin is revealed, clean and fresh underneath. She stands, faster then she knows his eyes can follow, and then she is before him, naked and whole. She puts her hand around his neck. She puts her other hand into his chest.

He gurgles, warm blood spilling out of his mouth. The whites of his eyes roll. She gropes around inside him, loving the slick feeling of his organs and the brittle give of his bones. He is limp against her strength now, dead. She is always surprised at the rate which newly dead flesh cools and she shifts through him quickly. No spark. No spark. His spark has not escaped; she would have felt it go. She always feels it slip though her fingers, just out of reach. She knew this one was different. She digs deeper.

There was something in him – she saw it. Something fierce and wild and hungry. Even now the scent clings to him. She drops the body to the floor, spreads it out and begins to open it entirely. She works methodically. She has never done this before. Usually their sparks are obvious, a beacon to her being. But this one…

Finally she sits back among the ruin, resting on her bloody heels and cocks her head. No spark. It has not left; she did not feel it go. But it is not lingering in his flesh where she can find it either. Perhaps she was too hasty. Perhaps she should have watched him longer. This one might be the clue to figuring out how to reach it, how to touch it, how to sooth her constant aching hollowness. She considers the mess of blood and meat and bone for a long time. Finally she shifts through it and digs out what was once the face. The top half is missing, both eye sockets are hollowed out, and the mouth is torn into a wide crocodile grin. She nibbles at the tear in thought. She has never done this before, but she knows she is able. She has just never seen the point. Finally, she draws the torn lower lip into her mouth and sucks at it gently, tasting it. Inside her the hunger moves.

It is the abyss, the hollow, the great emptiness that has driven her across eternity. It is hell and damnation and living death. It is the very absence of divinity. She was not meant to be like this. Just one touch, one moment in the sphere of some shabby humans spark would be enough to fill her. If she could just touch it.

She draws the meat back together. She glues it with the ashes that fell from her own body. She hooks her fingers into her eyes and pops them into her hand, pressing them gently into the sockets. See – she can choose to be gentle too. When he is together she breaths into him and the dark settles into his body. The chest rises. The steady, steady heart beat she so admired thrills through her again. And she can still smell it, the thing inside him. His spark, not quite like other men, something a little different. She snuffles down the length of him, pleased that she will get another chance to find it, and to figure him out.

This will require observation. She can do that. He is so calm; she can be calm in his presence. She won't need to break him open when the hunger overcomes her. His spark is so hidden it doesn't raise that helpless want in her. She stands and leaves the cabin but she doesn't go far.

A couple days later he shifts and rolls off the floor, unsteady and groggy. He does not know what has happened. He does not know why he is still alive. He does not know she is watching. He gathers his things and he leaves.

She follows him. He searches for her but does not find her. Eventually he packs his things into his car and moves. She follows him across the land, through human cities and empty spaces both. She discovers that in his presence, she has the strength of will to take time with her killings. She never does quite reach the spark in time but she is beginning to obsess over the idea that his is the one that will free her.

He hunts vampires. Shallow, cheap imitations of the depths she is capable of. It is easy to disguise her messes so that he never suspects her presence. Death does not follow him. He believes the he hunts down death. She allows this to continue for years.

Then he disappears. The steady, thrumming heart beat that had been her guiding spark stops. She goes mad. That night she rips apart eight humans, desperate for their warmth, desperate to catch it before it slips through her fingers. She never does. Only one spark never slid past her, and eventually she resolves to find it. She fixed his flesh once. She could do it again. She finds his body and it is cold. The head is torn off but that is a simple matter. She presses the pieces together and licks at the skin until her spittle glues it in place, then she presses her mouth to his and feels the abyss move inside her. He has been dead for a while. It is easy enough to animate the flesh, and she can still smell that thing about him, but he does not move when she draws him up. Something is missing. She takes his body and stores it in a safe place.

She goes looking. She knows him. She knows his scent and his rhythm and the cold reptilian sharpness of his mind. He is not like other men. She walks over the earth then she slips the veil and walks through Hell. He is bright, so focused, and she feels something fierce and determined rise up in her when she is in his presence. Something in her recognizes his cool shadows. She finds him in Hell easily, and she draws him back to his body. She misses his heart beat.

She lies beside him. She can sense the mechanics of his mind come into focus. He looks at her for the first time in many years. The madness in his eyes stirs the monster in her head and the heat in her belly. This time she will not hide from him. This time he will tolerate her presence. She is willing to bargain for a taste of his spark and she does not think he will turn down what she can offer in return.

She presses her body close to his and traces his names across the skin where she sealed his throat closed.

_ Gordon_. _Walker_.


End file.
